The Mullah's Storm (20 page)

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Authors: Tom Young

BOOK: The Mullah's Storm
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The insurgent shuffled around in the snow, perhaps looking for something to burn. He bent over to examine an object on the ground. When he stood up, Parson centered the cruciform reticle on the man’s torso. Adjusted his aim point slightly. Released air from his lungs. Pressed the trigger.
The silenced weapon made little noise, just a
pffft
like a soda can opening, then a crack as the bullet broke the sound barrier. The guerrilla dropped as if a trapdoor had opened beneath him, felled behind a drift.
Parson ejected the spent cartridge. The finely machined bolt moved as if lubricated with butter, and the empty brass tumbled into the snow. He closed the chamber on a live round. Watched through the scope. Blinked once.
No movement but smoke rising. No sound from the man he’d shot. Parson waited, waited. Cold now, but not shivering. The tick of his watch.
He heard faint voices inside the dwelling. Voices not alarmed, but annoyed. Bitching, Parson guessed. What the hell is taking him so long? Where did he go? Well, come on out and see.
The door opened again, and another man came out. Black overcoat, flat-topped hat. The insurgent stopped, apparently saw his comrade on the ground. Called a name. Walked upright toward the body.
That’s right, thought Parson. You didn’t hear shit, did you?
The man stopped again, perhaps when he saw the blood. He whirled, looked around, maybe realized his mistake. His last one. Parson fired.
Not as good a shot this time. The man fell, writhed. Parson judged from the exit wound’s spray that he’d caught him in the abdomen.
The man let out a sound between a growl and a scream:
“Ashhaduuuuuuuu!”
Garbled syllables. Parson wondered if he was trying to recite the Shahadah. The wounded man couldn’t quite seem to get through it.
Now some other kind of words.
“Mamannnnnnn . . .”
Is he calling for his buddy? Parson thought. His mother? Wet coughs.
Parson almost felt pity. I should have nailed him a little higher, he thought. Die, for God’s sake. He chambered a fresh round, listened to the moans. Damn, I wish I hadn’t done that to him. Better a clean kill.
Focus, Parson told himself. He settled his cheek back onto the stock, scanned through the scope. Get ready in case the third one is totally fucking stupid.
The wounded man lay on his back now, raised one quivering hand to the sky. His fingers and arm were covered in dark blood. Through the scope, Parson noticed red droplets fall from the man’s fingertips. Parson thought about finishing him off, but he couldn’t see the head. Didn’t make tactical sense, either. Maybe the screams would eventually draw out another target.
The insurgent made a gurgling noise, tried to speak again:
“Il-allahhhhh . . .”
The words trailed off, stopped with a spasm of coughs.
Parson felt nauseated. Shut the fuck up and die already. No, don’t. Call for help. Call for your buddy.
No buddy came out. So he’s not a complete idiot, thought Parson. Too bad.
The barrel of an AK-47 appeared through the hole in the wall. The man holding the weapon shouted in accented English. All Parson understood was “Infidels!”
The man fired a long burst. The line of bullets whipped into the snow like a lash, nowhere near Parson.
What the hell do you think you’re shooting at? Parson thought. He tried to settle his crosshairs on the gunman. So you’re going to make this easy after all. The man disappeared inside. Shit. Okay, so you’re not.
The wounded guerrilla cried out again, a guttural howl that rose to a high keen before trailing off. Shut the hell up, thought Parson. I’m trying to concentrate. Parson turned the rifle to look at the man again through the scope. He saw the legs, part of the torso. Everything bloody. He still could not see the head.
Parson considered firing again anyway. Not even a terrorist deserves to die like that, he thought. Maybe another round into him anywhere would hasten his exit. And possibly give away your position. And yes, he does deserve to die like that.
You better pay attention to business, Parson told himself. Put that scope on the one who can still hurt you. He centered the crosshairs over the hole in the wall. Nobody there.
Parson worried that the man inside would shoot Gold. If he’s ever going to do it, he’ll do it now. Please God, don’t let me hear a shot from in there. Maybe they had instructions to keep her alive until they could make another video. If so, I hope he’s more afraid of his boss than he is of me.
Snow still steady. Flakes that touched the rifle barrel melted instantly and beaded up, the steel warm from two shots. Parson watched. Nothing.
So this is turning into a contest to see who’s more patient, Parson thought. I got all the time in the world, motherfucker. I have no role in life but to lie here and wait to put a round through you. I am a weapons system.
Another moan from down the hill. Weaker now. So you’re still with us, Parson thought. That’s a long time to suffer that kind of pain. He put the scope on the wounded man. One of the insurgent’s feet dug at the snow, the heel scraping back and forth.
Parson placed his finger on the trigger. No, no, no. The bastard inside doesn’t know where you are, he told himself. Don’t give away your only advantage. Mercy has its place, but not here. What kind of mercy did they show Nunez? And I didn’t want this. I should be in Masirah by now, sipping a beer. But everybody I would have been drinking with is dead.
I’ll soon join them if I don’t pay attention, Parson thought. Crosshairs on the hut again. No change. What is that son of a bitch up to?
All right, so he has orders to keep her alive, Parson guessed. Otherwise he’d have shot her by now. But the more freaked out he gets, the less discipline he’ll have. What if he decides his boss didn’t anticipate this situation, so the instructions no longer apply? Do these people think like that, anyway? Maybe time’s not on my side.
The wounded man cried out again. A full-throated scream this time. Parson shuddered, panned with the crosshairs until they stopped on the heaving chest. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Will you please stop breathing? Parson pressed the trigger, felt the recoil. The torso jerked, lay still and silent.
Parson cursed himself for the impulse. Fucking idiot. Just another chance for the guy inside to figure out where you are. He ejected the spent brass and chambered another round.
No sign whether the terrorist in the hut had heard the rifle’s faint report. But it’s quiet out here, Parson thought. Quiet as outdoors ever gets.
Hell, this isn’t working anymore, he decided. That guy in there is warm, and he won’t come out now unless he completely loses his mind. And he’ll likely shoot her if he goes that crazy.
Parson studied the hut through the scope. He wanted mainly to know if the insurgent was looking at him. No one at the hole in the wall. No one visible anywhere.
He slid the sleeping bag off his legs and rose up on his hands and knees. Then he eased backward, rifle over his arm. Kept his eyes on the hut until it disappeared behind the ridge. Snow powder covered him now.
Parson left the sleeping bag and pack. He could move better and present a smaller profile without them. If he succeeded, he could come back for them. If he failed, he wouldn’t need them.
He stumbled downhill to keep the ridgetop between him and the little village, and he worked his way along the shoulder of the mountain to get past the village. He wanted to get far enough away from the dwellings to move into the valley unobserved.
The snow fell straight down as if sifted. The cloud layer hung low, so dark it seemed night had not gone completely but hovered just overhead. Parson snowshoed along for about half an hour, then hiked uphill to look over the ridge again.
He was disappointed to see he hadn’t put as much distance between himself and the village as he’d thought. Parson wanted to get well west of it, then descend into the valley and approach from the side where the destroyed huts were. He doubted the bad guy inside could see him come from that direction as long as the man remained indoors. He looked through the binoculars. A wisp of wood smoke. Nothing else.
Parson retreated to the back side of the ridgeline and forged ahead through ice-glazed trees. He topped the ridge again and scanned the dead village once more. Now it lay farther to his right, small even in the binoculars and veiled by descending snow. He hoped that same veil would conceal his next move.
He started down the slope above the huts, headed into the valley. A few steps took him out of the timber and onto the exposed face of the mountain. Parson walked fully upright; there was nothing for cover now except distance and snowfall. He thought if the remaining insurgent ever spotted him, it would happen during this part of the stalk. But maybe the winter camo parka and the white tape over the rifle would help him disappear into the frozen landscape. If it doesn’t work, he thought, I’ll know it when the bullet hits me.
When he reached the bottom of the slope, he lost sight of the village. That encouraged him. Parson had the lay of the land; he still knew where the dwellings were. But if he couldn’t see the village, the village couldn’t see him. Yet. When he judged himself in the bed of the valley, he turned east toward the huts.
After several minutes of hiking, he took a knee and glassed the expanse ahead of him. There was the village again, mainly rubble from this angle. Parson wondered if an air strike had done the damage here, too. He imagined the Warthogs coming in from this same direction, low and fast, spitting fire and steel at such a rate that their guns sounded like chain saws. He watched for a few moments, then stood and advanced.
When he came within a couple thousand yards of the huts, he stopped again. He went down on one knee. Then he lay prone in the snow. Parson put away the binoculars and scanned through the rifle scope. If he’s within range for me, Parson thought, I’m within range for him if he’s good enough. But the optic revealed nothing except snow-topped walls, blasted open some time ago.
Back on his feet, he trudged forward for several minutes. Stopped. Lay in the snow and scanned. The crosshairs still found no sign of life. Parson repeated that process twice until the mud-brick ruins were only two hundred yards away. Then he removed his snowshoes, left them behind, and stayed on his belly. Low-crawled through the downlike powder.
The snow got inside his clothes, but he ignored it. If I pull this off, he thought, I’ll have time to get dry inside. If I don’t, something else will get me long before hypothermia. He listened closely but heard no sound. Parson feared hoofbeats. He wondered whether his enemy had a radio to call for help.
Parson crept forward, eyes on the ruins. He heard no noise, saw no motion. Just smoke still rising. When he reached the outermost wall, or what was left of it, he left his rifle against a pile of stones. Too close for that weapon now. Parson drew the Colt and pulled back the hammer. Held it with his right hand. Pain there, but bearable. Picked up a fist-size rock with his left hand.
He walked in a low crouch along a wall that connected all the huts. That part of the structure remained pretty much intact. He peered along the wall and saw no one. Heard nothing. Parson placed each step straight down into snow that came above his knees. Tried to stay out of the rubble. He was within a few yards of his enemy now, and he wanted to make as little noise as possible.
Near the end of the wall, he came to the hole where the guerrilla inside had fired his panic burst from the AK-47. Parson flattened his back against the mud bricks, facing outside. Held his breath, listened. He hurled the rock backward over the hut and heard it clatter.
The AK opened up. Parson did not see where.
He ran forward. Crouched at the opening in the wall. Aimed the pistol inside with both hands.
A man at the door, firing out. The man turned, brought around the weapon. It took him half a second to move up the barrel to clear the doorjamb. That was all the time Parson needed. He fired twice.
Blood spurted from the man’s arm. He dropped the AK, fell. Parson fired again. The man jerked. In the corner of Parson’s eye, he saw a woman tied to a chair.
He charged through the opening, over crumbled stones. Crossed the room in three strides. Stood over the downed terrorist. The man looked only stunned. His eyes were still moving.
The man kicked with both legs just as Parson fired again. Knocked Parson off his aim. The bullet gouged the mud wall. One heel caught Parson’s shin. The other boot hooked the back of his knee. He fell against the man and felt the body armor.
The man grabbed Parson’s Colt by the barrel, using his good arm. Parson held the weapon with his injured hand. Placed his other hand over his enemy’s. The man raised his wounded arm. Struggled to place his finger inside the trigger guard. The weapon shook as four hands fought for it. Parson ground his teeth from the pain in his wrist.
Wide eyes, orbs of hate. Parson watched the pistol barrel turn despite all his strength and will. Saw the rifling grooves inside the barrel. He clawed at the safety. Useless. He tried to push back the slide so the weapon couldn’t fire. The man’s grip was too strong. Now the muzzle pointed at Parson’s left eye. Two inches away. A bead of sweat dropped from Parson’s nose onto the gunmetal. The man tried to push his thumb toward the trigger. Parson heard noise behind him. Something falling.

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